Oblivion
by April1
Summary: Rory/Tristan; Where things aren't always what they seem, and our stubborn couple is offered a second chance. Will they take it?


Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

Author's Note: Believe me, I never thought I would find myself writing another Trory fic, but this thing basically had a mind of its own. It has been such a long time, so it's entirely possible that this story only makes sense in my head. Go figure, LOL.

This is dedicated to all the Trories at FanForum. Congratulations on 150 threads - may there be 150 more full of fun, friends, and general mayhem. ;) Consider it my gift to you.

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Oblivion

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Theirs was a love born in the hearts of those who dared to believe.

She sat at the dressing table, pondering her reflection in the gilded mirror. Her pearl earrings glinted in the soft yellow light as she pulled her hair back, fashioning it into a loose twist at the nape of her neck. Giving a slight nod of approval, she stood, smoothing the creases from her black halter dress. Her stomach flipped in anticipation as she glanced at the clock on the nightstand.

5:30.

He would be home soon. She quickly adjusted the pillows on the bed, trailing her fingers over the deep blue comforter and marveled in the resemblance to the beautiful hue of his eyes.

The sound of keys scraping in the lock on the door echoed through the house, and she waited a moment, taking a calming breath as she heard his familiar steps in the foyer. The clinging of metal against wood told her that, once again, he had carelessly slung his keys in the general direction of the side table, only missing as they collapsed instead to the floor. The muffled sounds faded away as he entered the kitchen, and her heart fluttering, she dimmed the lights in the bedroom. It was time.

*****

Running a hand through his intentionally tousled blond locks, he surveyed the dining room, his heart swelling at the very thought of her. There were candles scattered among the nooks and crannies, their flames alternately glowing brighter then darker as they were twisted and flirted with by the gust of a tiny breeze from the open window. The table had been carefully and lovingly set, a bottle of champagne chilling in the cool night air.

His breath caught in his throat as a shadow of movement danced in and out of the candlelight. Slowly, but with every bit of confidence she possessed, she moved into his view. 

And even after all these years, the sight of her could still bring his heart on a collision course with his knees.

Her sapphire eyes sparkled, the glow from the candles accentuating every fleck of hope, happiness, and love. She had put her hair up, several silky strands falling loose to frame the gentle curve of her jawbone. How he longed to touch it, reveling in its softness and sweet scent. His eyes began their leisurely appraisal of her tiny frame, drinking in her curves, from her sexy shoulders to her slender, muscular calves. The dark hem of her dress skimmed her delicate knees, and it swayed as she moved, tantalizing him with the barest hint of skin. God, she was beautiful.

He swallowed deeply, and opened his mouth to speak, finding his throat dry as sandpaper.

"Hello, Rory."

His voice dripped with huskiness as he whispered her name. Two syllables she had heard all her life, but those that still managed to seem new when gracing his lips. To him, every nuance of her name was something to be cherished for it was part of her.

He stepped closer, a mixture of darkness and light blanketing his chiseled features. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, and she knew her face had immediately flared a cherry red. Rolling her eyes, she pretended not to notice the smirk he quickly tried to hide. He took amusement in the fact that he still had this effect on her. But it had even more meaning now, for he was the only one she allowed to do so. With only one glimpse of him, she was once again that giddy teenager, helpless under his piercing gaze. 

He was millimeters away now, and she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. His hand lifted, presenting her with a single long-stemmed rose. She grinned, pleased, but as she started to take the flower from him, he shook his head slightly. He brought the soft petals to her face, caressing her from temple to cheek with their delightful fragrance. As he removed the rose, his lips grazed the porcelain valley at her jawbone. Her small, fluid fingers tightened around the edge of his blazer, and for a moment he considered giving in, chalking up the plans he had made for the evening and showing her right then and there how much he loved her. To touch. To take. To devour. But this night was too special. _She _was too special. He intended to make the most of every second.

Taking a step back, he slipped his fingers through hers, their hands melding together as one. She pouted playfully, but she knew his resistance wouldn't last.

He chuckled at her indignant expression. "We're doing it my way this time, Rory."

She quirked an eyebrow, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "We are, huh? And here I thought your way was to jump at any chance to…" She trailed off, blushing at her thoughts.

"Ravage you?"

Her jaw dropped. His words should not have shocked her, for he had done so before. Many times. "Well," she stammered, "that isn't exactly the word I would have used, but… yes."

Winking, he tugged at her hand. "Don't play so innocent, Rory. We both know what you're like behind closed doors." 

Her eyes widened, but before she could protest, he placed a solitary finger against her soft lips, rendering her silent. The simplest touch conveying all that the were and all that they would be. Filling two glasses with champagne, he handed her one, relishing the feel of her hand brushing against his. "To my wife, on our one year anniversary." His gaze meet hers, and as always, the rest of the world fell away, and he was lost in her. Lost in love. They clinked glasses, the sound barely heard above their beating hearts. She took a sip of the bubbling liquid, and it only served to add to the exhilarated feeling, her pulse pounding out of control.

He set their glasses aside, eager to close the distance between them. Taking both her hands in his, he brought them to his lips, placing a tiny kiss on each wrist. "We've come a long way."

She squeezed his right hand, running one finger over the platinum wedding band. Smiling, she looked up at him, her heart flipping over at the adoration in his eyes. "And to think I almost hated you…"

*****

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Graduation day at Chilton dawned warm and bright, the light breeze ruffling the trees, sending the leaves dancing in a symphony of perfect harmony. Rory clutched her diploma tightly in her hands, surrounded by excited family and friends, accepting their words of congratulations and pride. The lawn was a bustle of activity, one face blending into another as students rushed about, hugging, laughing, and posing for the obligatory photographs. Summer was here, and in several months, they would be beginning college. A whole new chapter in their lives was upon them. 

Rory glanced around the school's grounds, waving at fellow classmates, matching their beaming smiles. And then out of the corner of her eye, she saw him.

A flash of perfectly messy blonde against starched white.

No, it can't be…

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A group of giggling girls passed in front of her, blocking her view, and she sidled around them, kicking herself for being so damn eager to see… to know.

He was there, not even trying to blend in with the crowd. Leaning casually against the trunk of a tree, arms crossed defiantly in front of his chest, he was the picture of confidence. And he looked the same… but not quite. His tan was a little deeper, his shoulders a bit broader. And his eyes…

Were burning holes right through her skin.

Ignoring the whispers and interested glances thrown in his direction, his intensity gaze never left her still form. It was almost as if they were in a desert and she was his oasis, providing him with the relief he craved above all else. He stared at her relentlessly, his face unreadable, daring her to even risk breaking the invisible contact. It was like a thread pulling her closer to him. Closer to the inevitable. 

And she could feel him. Blue on unyielding blue.

She felt completely vulnerable.

And warm.

And torn. 

And tingly.

He wasn't smiling. Not even a flicker of that familiar, irritating smirk.

What did he want from her? He didn't bother to lift a hand in greeting… just…

…staring.

He wasn't bothering to pretend he didn't see her. He wasn't looking through her as if she didn't exist. Like he had better things to attend to. His eyes were piercing straight into_ her._

She felt lightheaded.

And he knew it.

The sound of a voice close to her ear was like a gunshot to the head. "Hey, babe, what's got you looking like aliens have landed, and they've asked you to have their baby? You know, I think Ripley's would be interested…"

Rory jerked as if stunned as Lorelai laughed at her daughter's disorientated expression. Her eyes skipped quickly from her mother back to the tree as if she were watching a tennis match, and she suddenly felt inexplicably sick.

There was no one there. In the matter of an instant, he had disappeared, leaving her wondering if he had ever really been there or if her subconscious was striving desperately to make her aware of feelings she had tried so hard to disregard. Was he a mere apparition from the past or something more?

She frantically scanned the sea of people, her heart thumping triple time into her throat, clawing its way into her mouth. Whether it was luck or someone silently granted her wish, she saw a tall, lean shadow slip into one of the hallways of the school, the door scraping against black and white tile as it closed. Her feet took several steps, feeling as if they were burdened with blocks of lead. Her mind willed her to stay, to let him go. Never see him again. Never deal with these unwanted feelings ever again.

But she couldn't let him go. Not yet.

Her heart won the battle.

So she ran.

*****

He entered the courtyard, wondering why in the hell he came back here. To this place of memories. Memories of her.

He crossed the stone path, wandering absently, not knowing what he was looking for but knowing simply that he would find it. The bench, an ordinary, meaningless object to the outsider, loomed before him, serving as a reminder of everything he had lost and that he now had nothing to gain. Reluctantly, he settled down on it, his lip curling in disgust as he recalled his behavior towards her. So much had happened since their sophomore year. A year that should have held so much promise. He had everything in the palm of his hand, and it was all ruined. Because of her. But he wasn't angry with her. He could never, ever be angry with her.

He cared too much.

And he hated himself for it. He had been shipped off to military school during their junior year for rebelling in the only way he knew how. He had been trying to forget everything, forget she ever existed. It had been over a year since he had last seen her. Not that he had been counting the days, of course.

All four hundred eighty-seven of them. 

And why did he care so damn much, anyway? She had kissed him back, but instead of declaring her undying love for him, she had cried. She cried, _for God's sake. She _hated_ him._

He buried his face in his hands, waiting impatiently for the relief to come, to take the pain away. But this time, there was nothing but emptiness.

So absorbed in his own thoughts, he failed to hear the tiny click of a door shutting and the quiet tapping of heels on cobblestone. 

"Tristan."

He glanced up wearily, wondering who had the audacity to disturb him, and saw the face of Rory Gilmore.

*****

There. She said it. The name she had tried so intensely to bury but that remained firmly in the recesses of her memory. The name that danced through her dreams, lingering long into her waking hours. He did nothing but look at her blankly, his eyes scanning hers for something only he could see. "What do you want, Rory?"

There wasn't any malice to his tone. He sounded exhausted, whether it was emotionally or physically, she wasn't sure. She was at a loss for words. She wanted him to say something, anything, to make this easier. Twisting her fingers in front of her, feeling suddenly cold, she whispered, "Are you okay?"

Scoffing, he rolled his eyes, turning slightly on the bench so he was no longer facing her. "Like you care." 

"I don't," she lied.

"Funny. For someone who doesn't care, you sure got out here quickly enough. Time to play the good little girl and make sure everything is okay? I don't need your pity." Taking a deep breath he hissed, "And I don't need you." He instantly regretted those words. He waited, surveying her expression carefully, realizing that he wanted nothing more than to make her feel something, anything. Even if it was hate. At least that would be familiar. He couldn't stand the overbearing indifference.

She remained stoic, not even flinching. After several moments of deafening silence, she spoke, almost too calmly. "I don't pity you, Tristan. I just don't understand you. Why are you here?"

His eyes flashed over her, without ever really seeing her. "I figured I might as well see what my graduation would have looked like. Obviously I haven't missed much."

Except you.

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She was furious with him, but she refused to question why. His words shouldn't have bothered her. He meant nothing to her. Nothing and everything.

Choosing to resume the silence between them, she moved closer, easing herself onto the bench beside him as if she were afraid he would suddenly push her off. He glanced over at her out of the corner of his eye, and saw that she was intently focused on her knees, the gown draping over her slim frame like a curtain. Her hair curled loosely around her face, and as she shifted a little, the soft tendrils brushed his shoulder ever so lightly. Lips pursed, she frowned, her eyes an array of emotions unshed.

And together they sat, neither knowing quite what to say to the other… very much unlike their previous encounters. Her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the surface of the bench, drawing his attention to their long, slender curves. Her nails were unpolished, their tiny half-moons free of adornment. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to take her hand in his, bringing it to his cheek. To breath in the scent of her.

He searched his mind for anything to break this damn, unbearable silent hell. To stop thinking of her in that_ way, but he knew it was pointless. He knew of no other way to think of her._

"Are you wearing anything under that robe of yours?"

Any other girl would have slapped him, and he half expected her to. To his surprise, she turned to him with a small smile on her pink lips. "That's better." And then, "Thank you."

"What?" He was incredulous, but couldn't stop the amused grin.

"I was really starting to worry about you, you know."

"Ah, so you do_ care." He had turned to face her fully now, their knees only centimeters from touching, as if willed by outside forces._

"Only because this moping, 'poor me' attitude isn't you, Tristan. This," she pointed at the smirk on his face, "is you." She said it almost proudly, as if she had been the one to break the outer barriers he had so carefully, yet unwillingly, rebuilt.

She had been, of course.

"How have you been, Rory? Honestly." He was trying to steer the subject away from himself. He wasn't ready for her to know… not yet.

"Good. Busy. In the fall, I'll be attending…"

"Yale. I know."

Her eyes narrowed. "How did you…"

He shrugged in what he hoped resembled a nonchalant manner. "Word travels fast in our circles." He would never tell her that upon his return to Connecticut, he had bothered to ask his grandfather for any news on the elusive Rory Gilmore. He paused for a second, knowing the answer to his next question could very possibly feel like a knife being twisted over and over into his stomach. "I guess your bobble-head of a boyfriend is happy you'll be so close by. For romantic interludes." The thought made him want to gag.

"He's not here."

"I didn't think he was, considering you're not carrying a leash with you."

She frowned at him, not bothering to reprimand him this time. "He's busy planning a wedding." She didn't know why she said it in such a vague manner. Was she hoping he would actually think…

His furtive glance in the direction of the empty ring finger on her left hand was so swift she almost missed it. When he raised his face back up to hers, he had once again masked all emotion. Her heart jolted.

"He's planning a wedding… to someone else?" She nodded, and he felt a quiver of triumph. "A wedding on the farm. I'm sure that will be the talk of high society. A barn full of howling, stray, rabid cats. Priceless. Will there be banjos, too?"

Her eyes shot fire at him. "Don't talk about him like that."

Frustrated that she was still defending the bastard, he stood up, putting distance between them. "Why do you care? He was dumb enough to leave you."

He had his back to her, staring intently into the shallow depths of the marble fountain, the damp leaves weaving in and out of its curves. A sudden wind sent one small, pitiful leaf dunking under the liquid surface, and he, too, felt like he was drowning.

"It was my fault."

"Your fault?" His interest piqued. Could it be possibly that he _had been the cause of their break-up? Did he want to be? Hell, yes, he did._

"There was… another guy." Why was this so difficult to tell him? It was none of his business. But for the first time in a long while, he was asking, and she would tell.

His back went rigid. "Who is he?" His right hand clinched in a fist at his side.

"Jess."

He whirled around, glaring at her. She had broken up with Dean for another guy. A guy that wasn't him. And that hurt for he knew she never would have damaged her relationship with Dean for him. She didn't feel the same way. She never would. "And… you're still with him."

She didn't seem to notice his turmoil. Her eyes were trained on the ground as she swung one of her legs back and forth, her shoe scuffing the cobblestone. "He left."

He wanted to laugh, but something told him that wouldn't be appropriate. He stepped back towards her, stopping just short of her swinging leg. "You have the worst luck with men, Rory," he said, almost teasingly.

She looked up at him, seeing the laughter in his eyes, and tucked a strand of hair angrily behind her ear. "God, I never should have told you any of this. It isn't any of your business." He would use this knowledge as an excuse to torment her.

It was as if he hadn't heard. "Maybe it's time you changed things."

"Change what? Change myself to make a guy like me?" she asked disbelievingly. "I know it's hard for you to comprehend, Tristan, but some guys aren't like you. Not all of them want a girl who is as beautiful as she is brainless, someone who will answer to their every whim. Girls with names like Muffin and Sissy." She was talking without breathing now, her words spilling out and over, beating him mercilessly in the face.

"For some reason, I prefer Rory." It was a whisper of admiration, but she seemed to take no notice. Or she didn't want to.

"I'm not like them." She spoke defiantly, not knowing why she felt the need to defend herself.

Thank God, you're not.

He edged closer to her, leaving her with no choice but to stand and shimmy out of his way. He caught her arm, and she glared at him heatedly. She gasped for breath, her mouth gaping open at the sudden seriousness in his eyes. "That's not what I meant, and you know it, Rory. You don't need to change anything. You're…"

Perfect.

She was everything he had ever wanted and a thousand times more.

Aggravated, he let go of her, tugging at the top buttons of his shirt, yanking them loose as if he were suddenly choking. 

She had backed up against the wall of the courtyard now, looking everywhere but at him. She tried to tell herself she had no interest in what he had been about to say… 

"What if things had been different between us?"

"Different? How? If you were actually civil to me from the beginning?"

He sauntered towards her, deliberately cat-like. "If I had never left." It wasn't a question for he feared she would never provide him with the only answer that could possibly suit him.

He was so close, she was severely limited in distractions. "I suppose in some weird way we might have been friends. In the strangest sense of the word." She felt his sharp intake of breath, and she winced.

"You know that isn't enough, Rory," he accused. "For me or for you."

Her mind felt like it was twisted in knots. These awkward, foreign feelings couldn't be hers. She wasn't supposed to feel this way towards him, of all people. "I… I don't know what you want me to say, Tristan."

His body was pressed firmly against hers, his hands placed against the brick wall on either side of her head, blocking her in. "Was it a mistake for me to come here, Rory? A simple yes or no will do." 

She was captivated by the heat flaring in his blue depths. It fascinated and frightened all at once. "I'm not sure I can give you what you want…"

"Yes or no, Rory," he repeated calmly, no longer rushed, treating every second as if it were a minute. Anything to prolong his time with her was a benefit.

She swallowed deeply, the simple word echoing through her heart and exiting her lips. She was powerless to stop it. "No."

His own heart swelled at the tiny shimmer of hope.

"And can you honestly tell me that if you left here now, you would never look back? Never wonder what could have been?"

She raised a shaking hand to her temple, rubbing her thumb and forefinger in a tight circle. But before she could massage a hole right through to her brain, Tristan seized her hand in his, willing all of her attention to him. Willing her to look at him. To see. To feel. To know. 

Her eyes resembled the finest of blue china saucers. She was drowning in the essence of him, a swirl of cinnamon and mint. And pure male. "I don't know where this is heading, Tristan."

"Neither do I." He chuckled at her bewildered expression, caressing her silken cheek with the back of his hand, marveling at the feel of her. She was real. "But when you do fall, and I have no doubt that you will…" She swatted at him, playfully this time. "I'll be here to catch you."

"We're supposed to hate each other, you know," she whispered, shades of a pleased smile teasing her lips. Lips he wanted to make his own.

He carefully removed her mortarboard cap, gently smoothing the stray strands of hair blowing in the breeze. Tossing the cap aside, he cupped her face with both of his hands, her trembles coursing through his own blood. "Well, if hating someone feels this good, I should do it more often."

And then he was kissing her. 

Her lips were warm, soft, and pliant against his as her arms wrapped around his waist, bringing them closer than the laws of science could have ever deemed possible. His hands tangled in her hair as the world shuddered and warped around them. She uttered a tiny sound of pleasure, and he deepened their embrace, tenderly but painstakingly, leisurely exploring the wondrous recesses of her mouth. 

A chasm of differences had been breached, not in just one mind, but two. Neither could explain it, but some things were better left unsaid. Their time would come.

He pulled away slowly, grinning in satisfaction as her eyelids fluttered ever so lightly. "So, how about that friendship, Rory?" He lowered his lips to hers again, breathing the next sentence in a whispered kiss. "With benefits."

Her eyes snapped open, as she tried to regain a sense of something… anything. In mere minutes, she had been meticulously tasted, tempted, and sent to oblivion. "And it'll be different this time?" 

While the automatic curve of his smirk told her that while some things may remain the same, the ruby red flush of her cheeks told him otherwise.

"It already is, Rory. You didn't cry."

*****

They were in the bedroom now, giggling like newlyweds, for every time for them was the first time.

His fingers expertly removed the clip from her hair, sending the thick, chocolate mass plummeting down her bare back like a waterfall. He buried his face in it, reeling in the scent of her. She never wore perfume, and he preferred it that way. There was nothing to mask the spirit of her except the barest hint of Ivory soap and strawberry shampoo. 

Her small, limber hands tugged deftly at his tie, drawing him closer to her, her lips eager for his touch. She shrugged off his shirt, so the slightest bit of material wouldn't dare to separate them. Skin to skin. She grinned devilishly. "Fast or slow, Tristan?"

His mouth lowered agonizingly to hers. "Slow, Rory. Very, very slow."

And he kept his word.

*****

Time had ceased to exist. They were curled together under the covers, utterly sated, her head resting comfortably in the crook of his arm. He leaned over her, kissing the tip of her nose, one of many gestures that had only ever been reserved just for her. 

She linked her fingers with his, forming an already inseparable bond. "What would you say to all the doubters from the past if you saw them now… the ones who thought we were crazy to even give this… give us a chance?"

His voice was husky with emotion still unspent. He had more to give and all the time in the world to do so. "I'd say we're the sane ones."

And so he showed her, loving her thoroughly and completely all over again. 

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End file.
